


What It Means To Endure

by asimpleword



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Blood, Character Death, Explicit Language, Happy Ending, Humiliation, Hurt Spencer, Kidnapping, M/M, Molestation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, SPOILER TAGS NEXT, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Assault, Slash, Torture, Trauma, Violence, Waterboarding, preslash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-16 08:42:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7260544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asimpleword/pseuds/asimpleword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first couple of hours, everyone assumes Reid has slept in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unknown

The first couple of hours, everyone assumes Reid has slept in.

❯ ❯ ❯

"Pretty boy?" Morgan knocks on Reid's door, and though he's sure it's nothing, that Reid is perfectly fine, apprehension is starting to settle inside of his chest like a weight he can't upheave. "I saw your car, I know you're in there."

The silence, in turn, is inordinately resounding. He waits, head tilted toward the door in an impotent attempt to listen for any sign of life inside the apartment. Morgan huffs, chest uncomfortably tight, and reaches for the handle.

It opens, and the weight in Morgan's chest suddenly feels like it's crushing him. Reid would never leave his apartment door unlocked. Not when he knows the kind of people that exist in the world and what they are capable of doing. He draws his gun in an experienced, vigilant move.

When he steps into the apartment terror clenches him so rapidly he feels like he can't breathe. He's so stunned his feet feel cemented to the ground before he can bring himself to step forward with suddenly wobbly legs.

"Reid?" he shouts, tone urgent. The lack of reply only further serves toward his forming hypothesis that Reid isn't here. Something in him shrivels at the thought. The main room is completely devastated. Books have been knocked from their shelves, chess pieces have been bestrewn across the floor, a lamp is broken over near a corner, two of the coffee table's legs are broken on one end, and the couch has been moved out of place. There was a hell of a struggle, and Morgan's heart is in his throat even as he feels a small sting of pride. His pretty boy fought, and he fought hard.

Though Morgan doubts anyone stuck around for the aftermath, he raises his gun again and makes his way carefully down the hall. A framed picture has been knocked off of the wall, and Morgan's heart shudders when he sees it's one of the whole team. Reid, Morgan himself, JJ, Garcia, Hotch, Rossi, and Prentiss all grouped together. He knows who is who, despite the broken glass covering most of the picture. He steps around it and continues on toward the bedroom. The closer he gets, the worse the feeling of being watched becomes. The hair on the back of his neck prickles uncomfortably.

The bedroom door is already open, and Morgan can see where whoever broke in must have dropped their effort to be stealthy and kicked the door in. Possibly to stun Reid enough to get the drop on him before he reached his gun. Morgan knows he keeps it in the drawer of his nightstand.

This attack feels too coordinated to be any kind of coincidence. They had to have known Reid, known he was an FBI agent and more than capable of putting up a fight. Most likely stalked him, and that leaves Morgan feeling sick with a sour taste in his mouth.

The sour taste gets worse when he sees blood. Not nearly enough for someone to have bled out, but enough for Morgan to be scared of what might've already happened to Reid. There's a small spattered puddle near the bed and a few drops that trail closer to the door before dying off.

Morgan steps closer to the bed, examining the thrown sheets and pillows, and freezes. Horror curls inside of him, and his mouth parts and his eyes are impossibly wide but unable to see anything except the bed in front of him. He can't bear to turn his eyes away. He suddenly feels sick and darts to the empty waste bin when bile forces it's way up his throat with a burning intensity. His eyes water, though he knows it's not just from the pain.

Along with the nausea comes anger, anger that anyone dared hurt Reid, dared to treat him with anything but respect.

He pulls out his phone, and the situation feels too real as he dials Hotch's number.

"Hotchner."

Morgan isn't at all comforted by the sound of a familiar voice. It isn't the one he wants to hear.

"Hotch, it's Reid."

He fails to keep his voice from shaking.

❯ ❯ ❯

Morgan can no longer bring himself to enter the bedroom. He paces and examines and scrutinizes the apartment upwards of ten times while he waits for the team, but he doesn't dare step foot into the bedroom. Not when all he can do is picture what might've happened there. He knows the horror Reid must've felt better than he wants to admit. His chest aches.

He hasn't gotten sick again, but his stomach roils and he feels like he's about to implode wondering where Reid is and what's happening to him. If he's scared or hurting or waiting for the team to come save him. His eyes burn at the thought, and he hastily scrubs at them. He can't afford not to focus if he wants to help Reid. He has to put aside his feelings and be objective, as hard as it is and as much as he hates it.

Reid has already been kidnapped one too many times. He's been hurt by unsubs enough for the whole team. He's become familiarized with pain far too well and Morgan hates that it's happening again. Reid's remained one of Morgan's closest friends for years, has meant so much more to him than a friend for nearly just as long. Knowing that this is happening, that it's real and Reid could very well die is almost too much to handle. Morgan is struggling to keep himself together.

Morgan moves to stand against the wall outside of the apartment, moves the door just enough to obscure the mess inside but doesn't close it all the way. It feels like too much of a betrayal to shut it- like he's trying to ignore what's inside.

In a way, he wants to. He doesn't want to think about a terrified Reid in his own home where he should've been safe, fighting for his life. Morgan hates that he wasn't there to protect him even if it's irrational and there's no way Morgan could have known. But he can't ignore what he's seen. Nothing will stop his fears or anxieties from rearing their ugly heads.

Morgan doesn't realize the team is there until there's a hand on his shoulder, heavy but trying to be comforting. He appreciates the effort even if it doesn't exactly help the wetness in his eyes or the tense set to his shoulders.

It's harder than it should be to meet their eyes when Hotch pointedly looks to the door. He pushes it open and leads them inside with a heavy heart. He hears Garcia's gasp (Morgan wishes she wouldn't have come, she doesn't need to see any of this, it'll only hurt her), JJ's murmur of sadness. He sees the carefully constructed but hidden anger in Hotch's eyes, the grim despondency that resides in all of them even as they pull gloves on. They want to get a look at the crime scene before calling the investigators.

Morgan gestures at Hotch, and the two of them head down the hallway. The sickness in Morgan's stomach returns tenfold. Hotch looks at the broken picture frame just like Morgan did, and he holds in a pained sigh. He settles for biting his lip as he and Hotch step into the bedroom.

Hotch walks further into the room, takes one look at the bed, and abruptly stops.

"Is that-"

"Yeah."

One word and Morgan's voice cracks, brittle and swimming with the pain he feels. Hotch's face is grisly, tense, and this is perhaps the worst Morgan has ever seen him without him vocalizing how he's feeling. It's written into his posture, in the thin line of his mouth, his pinched brows, but mostly the pure emotion in his eyes when he looks to Morgan. Sorrow, anger, even fear. Fear he knows isn't for any of them but for Reid.

There are more footsteps behind them, and Morgan stiffens. None of them are going to take this well.

Prentiss inhales sharply, JJ chokes down what Morgan thinks is a sob and covers her mouth as she turns her face away, Rossi briefly closes his eyes with a deep frown.

"Oh my god," Garcia breathes, trembling and horrified as she steps away from what she's seen, "my poor baby, oh."

Hotch steps away with his phone, presumably to call CSI, and Morgan watches numbly as his family begins to fall apart.

❯ ❯ ❯

Morgan doesn't sleep. He roams his house because he can't seem to sit still and takes Clooney on a run just so he doesn't end up breaking down completely. He tosses and turns when he can finally bring his taxed body to bed, and Clooney lies a little closer than normal. But he doesn't sleep. Not when all he can picture is Reid hurting, scared, alone. Not when he feels like he should be doing something, anything but lying in his bed while there's no doubt in his mind that Reid suffering.

❯ ❯ ❯

The second day, Morgan shows up to work in the same pants he wore yesterday and the beginnings of a 5 o'clock shadow.

The reminder that this is actually happening hurts more than it had yesterday morning. Aches just that much deeper the longer they have no idea where Reid is. The rest of the team looks just as bad as he does, and Garcia is nowhere near as sprightly as she should be. Morgan misses their banter, misses her endless smiles and broad selection of nicknames for everyone. But he understands how hard this is for her, it's hard for him, too. All of them are suffering.

Reid is a vital part of their dynamic. He's put them all before his own health so many times and nearly died. He's been an amazing friend to all of them, more than Morgan believes he deserves. As much as he's seen in the world, he still has some of that innocence, and Morgan fears that this will finally rip that innocence away.

Reid being the youngest has always made them protective, especially after they learned his struggles and fears and saw what he went through with Hankel. The aftermath was so, so hard on Reid. He leaned on Morgan and JJ the most, JJ because she had been a victim, too, and Morgan because he's Reid's best friend.

The conference room is unbearably full of their combined emotions as they try to build a profile based on what they know about the crime scene. The crime scene— Reid's apartment, Morgan's reminded with a painful jolt. The place Reid has lived for years and thought of as home. Morgan knows Reid'll never be able to go back without thinking of what happened there. None of them will. Morgan vows that when - not if - Reid gets back, until he can find another place to stay, he's staying with Morgan. For as long as he needs.

"But why Reid? And why risk staying instead of just taking him and leaving?" Emily asks aloud.

"Because this guy wanted to taint his apartment. He wanted him to feel unsafe in his own home. It was a scare tactic." Ice floods his veins at the realization but Morgan's voice is too hollow, too empty for how close to bursting he is. He feels raw and exposed, and it's wearing him down faster than he expected.

"It's disgusting, is what it is." JJ wrenches out, but she says it quietly. Morgan couldn't agree with her more.

"I can't imagine. . ." Prentiss is uncharacteristically emotional, but then again, they all are. They can't help it, not when Reid's life is on the line.

"Try to focus. I know this is hard, but we need to keep our heads if we want to help Reid."

Hotch is right. Morgan takes a moment to breathe.

"Okay, so we know this was a coordinated attack, it was planned carefully. This guy probably had a grudge or an obsession. Maybe this guy left something else. Garcia, do you think you can go through Reid's phone? See if he got any weird calls or text messages. Anything."

"Of course, I'll get right on it." Garcia darts off, flats tapping the floor quietly as she goes. Since Reid disappeared she hasn't bothered dressing like her normal self. No colorful dresses or shiny stilettos. She hasn't bothered with makeup or styling her hair. This has hit her hard, and Morgan hates seeing her so tormented. He misses her usual joyful demeanor. She's always tried to keep their spirits up on cases, and now she's barely shown a smile for days. As much as he hates it, he understands it as well.

"We're gonna nail this bastard to the wall." Morgan promises. There's a hard determination there that's been simmering the past two days, and he's going to use all he has to find Reid and bring him home.

❯ ❯ ❯

Morgan pulls into his driveway, weary and hurting and wanting nothing more than to fall into bed even if he won't be able to succumb to sleep. His eyes are unbearably heavy, and every part of him is spent to the bone.

They hadn't found anything on Reid's phone. No weird texts or calls. Garcia even went through ones that might've been deleted. She'd dug as deep as possible and there hadn't been a single thing even the slightest bit off. It frustrates Morgan endlessly that they don't have any other possible lead. Not until they get the results of the DNA tests back, and even that may not yield any results. On top of the nerve-wracking fear that they might not get a match, the wait makes it that much worse. The team is completely useless right now. They can't even advance the profile further than they already have.

Clooney greets him calmly at the door. He seems to know how Morgan feels and has been much less excitable lately. As he drags himself inside and up the stairs, Clooney sticks close to him, wet nose at Morgan's palm and a whine already in his throat.

Morgan takes a slow, lazy shower and then heads straight to bed with Clooney still glued to his side. Again, the dog curls up closer than he normally does and stares up at him with eyes that look just as sad as Morgan feels. He pets Clooney's head gently, eyes welling with tears before he even knows they're coming. Another whine, louder this time. Morgan hates that his behavior is upsetting Clooney, but he can't bring himself to pretend everything is okay. He thinks that even if he did, Clooney would see right through him anyway. He's always been an observant dog.

"Don't worry, boy. We'll bring him home."

Both of them know that it's not Clooney Morgan is trying to reassure.

❯ ❯ ❯

The third day, Morgan wakes on a knife's edge. He feels so pulled tight that even getting up that morning is arduous and unrewarding. He pulls on a plain shirt and jeans and shoves his feet into his boots mechanically. Thinking, feeling— is too much right now. Even though he slept last night, albeit not very well, he feels like he hadn't slept in days. He supposes he really hasn't, considering he'd been woken by nightmares at least once every night.

Worryingly vivid nightmares. And some of them aren't even about Reid. This - this fucked up situation has dredged up things Morgan hasn't had such trouble with for a long time. And it's taking it's toll much harder than he'd expected. He hurts in ways he never has before, and he hates it. The anxiety of not knowing what the hell Reid is going through, the terror that they'll find his body dumped somewhere.

That would very well break Morgan. It would break the whole team in ways they couldn't fix. So he hopes like he hasn't ever before even though he knows the statistics they're battling against.

Because if he doesn't, it makes the possibility of not finding Reid alive all too overwhelming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woowee!! I know this is a bit short, especially for the first chapter, but they will be longer as we dive into the story c: Also, more tags to be added and such. I'll mark where they turn into spoiler tags for those new to the story. This is indeed a slash fic fyi! No relationship tag bc it's currently preslash.
> 
> I'm hella excited for this story (even though it's gonna be pretty dark and angsty and sad oops), and I've got big plans for it! I plan on this being pretty long, so please stick with me lol. Please let me know what you thought so far! What do you think they saw in the bedroom?
> 
> Next update hopefully in a few days! See you then c:  
> If you wanna talk more, my twitter is @/smallangrybean  
> Come say hi!


	2. Suspect

"The blood wasn't his," Hotch says, 3 days since they sent the evidence to the lab, and something in Morgan deflates, just barely. Even the slightest bit of relief helps. But something in Hotch's tone tells him he isn't done, and that increases the tension tenfold.

"Neither was the semen."

Pain flashes behind Morgan's eyelids when he closes them. His throat feels tight.

"The good news is they've got a match on two of them."

"Two of them?" Morgan trembles at what that implies. All of them are scared, so scared. Beside him, Garcia lets the tears fill her eyes and her lip wobble. Rossi says something Morgan doesn't quite catch, one hand clenching into a fist hard enough to hurt. JJ is just as visibly upset as Garcia, and Emily turns her head sharply, body angry and tight with emotion. Morgan knows firsthand just how protective Emily has become over Reid.

"Yes," Hotch nods shortly, "Dudley Wickerman and Theo Hastings."

He slides a file onto the table they're all standing beside. Morgan is met with a tall, heavy set hispanic man with dark hair, blue eyes, and a crooked nose. Tattoos spiral up the side of his neck and span his shoulders. There's a small scar along his jawline. He's got to be twice Reid's size, and he's a good three inches taller. Morgan memorizes his face faster than he ever has before and tries not to sneer too hard at the picture. He's staring at one of the men who has a hand in hurting Reid. Dudley Wickerman.

"Bastard," Emily mutters, quiet and strained as she reads the file for Wickerman. Morgan's already read it. He knows what kind of man this guy is. He's already been arrested for attempted rape, sexual assault, and is a registered sex offender. There's a spattering of minor crimes— vandalism, trespassing, stalking. On top of that, he'd just been released from prison a few months prior. Long enough to learn Reid's erratic schedule and how long he'd most likely be out of his apartment, how often he had company, everything they could get on when Reid would be most vulnerable. It causes a swell of rage in Morgan's chest. For someone to stalk and hurt and take Reid as if they have _any_ right. As if there won't be repercussions. Morgan will hunt the bastards down himself if he has to.

The next file reveals a well-built caucasion male. He's young, and looks like your average clean-cut higher class, though he's got a surprisingly low IQ. His black hair is parted neatly to one side, his eyes are bright, and his smirk is smug. No visible tattoos, no identifying marks besides a large freckle beneath his right eye. Only two inches shorter than Reid, but what he lacks in height is more than made up for in muscle mass despite his lighter build. Even Morgan would struggle to take this guy down.

Hastings's file is much cleaner than Wickerman's. The only crime on his record is a report from a woman that he'd groped in a bar without her consent, but nothing much came of it. Other than that, the guy is golden. Not even a speeding ticket. Either he's good at covering his tracks, or he hasn't actually done anything since. Morgan doesn't believe for a second this guy isn't more of a criminal than his file tells.

"There was a third we couldn't identify, but it matches the blood on the floor."

Morgan almost wants to smile, in spite of everything. Reid had purposely left evidence, even if he didn't know it would be useful. He wasn't going down without a fight.

Neither is Morgan.

❯ ❯ ❯

When they bring Dudley Wickerman into their custody, Morgan resists the urge to tell him just how stupid he is. He swore up and down that he was innocent, and then refused to talk to Hotch at all when he realized he didn't have to. At least, about anything related to Reid or the apartment otherwise. He profusely complains about the handcuffs digging into his wrists, asks for water, as if he's in a hospital and not being held on some already heavy evidence.

As Wickerman once again bitches about a trivial matter, Morgan barges his way into the interrogation room, and it startles Wickerman enough that he halts in his stream of complaints. His gray eyes are only wide for a second before he seems to compose himself. There's something almost . . . smug in his expression now that Morgan doesn't like. He hadn't noticed anything of the sort when Hotch was in the room.

"Listen man, you better start talking-" Morgan stops when a smarmy grin slowly spreads on Wickerman's face, a laugh rumbling deep in his throat that makes his lip curl.

"What'd you say your name was?" Wickerman licks his lips, "Agent Morgan, right?" he laughs.

"I didn't," Morgan says, eyes dark and deadly as he places his hands on the table and leans toward Wickerman.

Wickerman stops short, mouth popping open and shut as he stares dumbly. He's just made a mistake, and Morgan is going to _tear him apart_. He slides the chair back, and sits down, clasping his hands together and staring at Wickerman with a smile that hides promises pain.

"Now, what else do you know about me, huh?"

"Nothin', all I know's your name." Ah. So this is how it's gonna be.

"Listen, you gotta know you're on a sinking ship here. Either you can cooperate with me and I'll tell the judge you complied," he pauses, watching as Wickerman tries desperately to rebuild his facade and rapidly fails, "or I can make this hell for you. One way or another, you're going to jail. You might as well try to make it a little better."

He stares for a moment, vexed, and Morgan can see the moment he caves.

"All's I know is that damn kid must like you a whole lot. Whenever you were threatened he broke . . . so easy." He laughs again, gleeful. Morgan grits his teeth to prevent from saying something he shouldn't. They'd used him to get to Reid, and that rattles him more than he's going to admit.

"Where is he?" Morgan demands.

"That, I have no idea. The guy wouldn't tell us where we were going, but he let us have our fun with the kid so long as we helped, so it didn't really matter."

"Fun?" Morgan asks, voice steely with rage. What they were doing to Reid wasn't fun. It was illegal. It was torture.

"Ah, c'mon. Nothing serious, nothing that really physically hurt the kid. That was _his_ thing."

"Who's he?"

"Dowan. Don't know his whole name, though. Not sure if it was a first or a last name. He's the," Wickerman searches for the right word, runs his tongue over his teeth, "leader, you could say. He wasn't into the fun stuff. He kept sayin' there was something the kid knew that he wasn't tellin' 'im. Something vital to his assignment or what the fuck ever. We had a don't ask, don't tell policy."

"What did he do to Reid?"

"Hm? Reid? Is that the kid's name? Dunno. At least, not all of it. He liked slappin' him. The stomach mostly, but he hit his face pretty hard, too. Sometimes we'd come back and the kid would be soaking wet all the way down to his waist."

Morgan knows what that means. Waterboarding, most likely. His chest hurts.

"What else?"

"That's all I know," Wickerman promises with a wicked grin, "agent."

Morgan stands, the image of barely smothered fury, and leaves. He has what he needs, even if he's not happy with what he got.

❯ ❯ ❯

"They found pictures on Wickerman's phone."

The whole conference room stills, dead silent when Hotch walks in with Garcia trailing behind him. She's shivering, eyes red and glossy in a way that showcase the fact she's been crying. Whatever the hell they'd found must have been anything but pleasant. Morgan can already guess what the pictures might show, and his heart pounds when the projector is turned on.

The first picture, though a little dark, shows Reid on his bed with who Morgan recognizes as Theo Hastings behind him, arms looped under Reid's with a hand over his mouth and legs around his own to hold him still. Reid looks . . . terrified, and definitely in shock. Morgan knows he probably couldn't believe what was happening. There's a bruise on his right cheek, and his eyes are red. That alone hurts to see. Anger pulses at the rope tied on his wrists. The skin around them is already reddened and raw.

The next, Hastings's hand slivers toward the bottom of his shirt, and Morgan clenches the arm of his chair hard. Reid's eyes are shining with tears.

Hotch presses a button, and reveals Hastings with both hands up Reid's shirt, face over his shoulder and grin wicked. There is definite evil in his eyes, and Morgan personally wants to rip that away until Hastings has experienced terror and excruciating pain much, much worse than he's caused Reid. Who now has his face turned away from the camera, and his eyes clenched shut. His cheeks are wet from his tears.

Hotch flicks through the pictures, wordless, and the further they progress the stronger Morgan feels the need to scream and beat something to a pulp. He's going to _ruin_ all of these men, and not feel anything but satisfaction for it.

He notices that only Wickerman and Hastings are visible, and Dowan isn't. It's definitely on purpose.

When it's over, there's a wave of rage that Morgan can barely contain. The room is silent as they all digest what they've just seen, and it's not an easy pill to swallow.

"I'm going to kill these guys," Morgan bites, rises from his seat, and walks out the door to take a breather before he does something he shouldn't. Everything hurts a little too much and behind the anger is sorrow, building just as fast as the impending wrath Morgan knows he is going to eventually inflict.

Anyone who has anything to do with his is going down, and Morgan is going to get Reid out of this mess if it's the very last thing he ever does.

❯ ❯ ❯

The fourth day, they find a body.

❯ ❯ ❯

Morgan steps up to the beaten, stiff corpse of Theo Hastings and it's the first time he's ever really wanted to spit on someone, dead or alive. He stares, face hard and unforgiving, at the wide-eyed face in front of him. His throat has been slit, and there's a spot on his head where it looks like his hair has been ripped out. He's mottled in bruises and nicks, defensive wounds that mean someone struggled against him.

"Well, someone put up a hell of a fight against him." Morgan states. Hotch nods his agreement, and so does the medical examiner.

"The cause of death was his slit throat. No alcohol in his system, but he did have an extremely large dose of Dilaudid. If his throat hadn't been slit he would've died from it."

Morgan swallows to hide a strangled noise. This is for them. This is a message clearly displaying what Dowan has the capability to do and just how deeply he knows Reid.

"There are," the ME begins hesitantly, and both Morgan and Hotch turn to her, "signs of sexual activity before death. If it helps, I don't think it was penetrative."

Again, nausea hits Morgan hard, but he says nothing. Hotch shifts jerkily next to him.

"Thank you." Hotch offers a kindness Morgan can't currently give.

"No problem," the ME smiles tentatively, "I hope this all works out for you."

"Me too," Morgan utters, but he appreciates her friendliness as he and Hotch step out of the room and away from what could have been their best lead, had he been alive.

They're no closer to finding Reid than they were yesterday. They even return to the crime scene since it's been several days and there might be something they missed. Morgan doesn't comment on the desperation of their actions. He's just as anguished to find answers as they are.

Going back to the apartment is just as painful as the first time. The chaotic state of it seems intensified after they've all had time to imagine what might've transpired here. Spencer waking up to someone in his apartment, fighting back only to be . . . _assaulted_ in his own bed. The mess in the main room only tells of an incredibly violent fight.

But when they step into the bedroom again, something clicks.

"Wait," Morgan says, blinks several times as he does, "this wasn't just a scare tactic. This - this was about humiliation. If it wasn't . . . penetrative, they wanted to humiliate him. They had to have known he's an agent and capable of defending himself." Morgan's stomach roils. He can taste bile.

"Maybe. That might only be part of it. They could've been aiming to torture him psychologically as well." There's a slight amount of comfort in the familiar way he and Hotch bounce ideas off of one another to get to the solution.

"Christ, kid," Morgan mumbles. The kind of shit Reid has gotten himself into makes him ache. He's been through too much, especially for someone so young. It makes Morgan never want to leave the kid's side because he's afraid something will happen if he does. And now, now Morgan can't do fuck all to protect him. He can't do anything but scramble until they find him and it's both endlessly frustrating and paralyzingly petrifying.

Nothing else in the apartment provides any more information than it had the first time they'd walked into it, so they leave. Morgan feels nothing but disappointment at knowing they aren't at all closer to solving this. There's so much they don't know and it's starting to feel like the trail is getting colder. Regardless, Morgan isn't going to give up. They're going to solve this, and they're going to get Reid back.

"Well, now what?" Morgan asks, "We've got nothing. Wickerman doesn't know anything, Hastings is dead, and we haven't found anything on Dowan. We have no idea who this guy is. We don't know what we're looking for."

"We're going to find him, Morgan. Don't let this stop you. Reid is strong. He can handle whatever Dowan throws at him." Prentiss sounds like she believes it, and Morgan so desperately wants to as well. God, he wants to. But there's no telling what Reid will experience with Dowan.

"I hope so," Morgan says, and hates himself a little for it. He knows Reid is incredibly strong, but it doesn't mean he won't come out of this unchanged. The consequences of Hankel were bad enough– he fears this will irreversibly break Reid to a point they can't fix. He doesn't want to see Reid struggle like that ever again. 

It's inevitable that just what they've seen, from the pictures, Reid is going to need time to heal, and Morgan is going to make sure he has his family there to help him along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pls forgive the trash master for another short chapter ;-; I wanted to get this out bc I felt bad for taking a bit with the next post. I was off procrastinating with other stories and such (aka watching the Game Grumps because they are funny as shit) but this story is def my main focus so don't worry!!  
> Next will be Reid and what he's going through right now, so prepare for the pain train my frens. And a longer chapter next time- promise!  
> The comments I've gotten so far are lovely and I love reading them, they make me so happy so thank you ♡ see you all soon!


	3. Forsaken

The first day, Reid is brought to an old building he's sure is two wrong steps from collapsing. He can tell even through the drugged haze he's only barely just woken from. He's over Dowan's shoulder (he recalls two other men referring to him by that name back at his apartment), hands tied in front of him. Struggling doesn't bring him any degree of success, not when he can hardly bring his body to move because he's so weak.

He receives a hard grip on the back of his knee for trying, and he's sure there are going to be bruises from how tightly Dowan squeezes. He thinks he made some noise of pain, a moan or a sharp whimper, but he doesn't hear anything so he can't be sure.

Dowan shoulders his way into a dark, cold room that smells musty, and every inhale is thick with it. The walls are concrete and so is the floor, but there are some squares of carpet on the side Reid is being brought to. He wonders absently why Dowan even bothered, until his fuzzy brain realizes it's because Dowan's planning on keeping him here for an extended period of time. His stomach knots in fear of just what Dowan has planned for him.

After what's already happened, he's terrified it will progress beyond that, even if Dowan doesn't seem interested in pursuing any kind of sexual torture. Just the other two men, and Reid hasn't seen them since they helped take him from his apartment. He isn't sure if they'll show up again. Dowan has expressed anxiousness about having them around. Reid suspects it's because they'll get him caught or interfere with whatever Dowan's going to do with him.

Once Dowan crosses the room, he drops Reid onto the carpet without bothering to be careful about it, and his head smacks onto the carpet at the same time the breath leaves his chest from the force of hitting the ground. This time he does hear his own whimper as he rolls onto his side and tries to figure out how to breathe again. The dull throb of a headache he's had since waking has now increased to a thumping pulse, and he slams his eyes closed to try to ease the pain. He knows Dowan is watching, looming over him, but not speaking. It's unnerving. Reid can't quite read his body language well enough, and it's impossible to tell what he's thinking.

He doesn't like how quiet Dowan has been this whole time. No threatening, no yelling, nothing. He hasn't made a single sound; he's entirely too calm. It tips Reid off that he's done this before, at least to some degree. He knows exactly how to put his victims on edge and intimidate them. Dowan wants Reid nervous and guessing what will come next.

Reid doesn't ask what he wants. Just stares apprehensively at Dowan as he waits for him to do something other than stand there.

Dowan's face is blank. He has dark, messy hair that's shaved on the sides but long on top. His eyes are just as emotionless as his face, and they're such a dark brown that they look black in the poor light of the room. He has a sharp, slightly upturned nose and a thin mouth. He's much bigger than Reid himself, probably a few inches taller, and he has wide shoulders. He's also very heavily muscled. He isn't the biggest out of the three men Reid has seen so far, but he is the most intimidating. His presence alone is rattling.

He guesses Dowan is probably in his late thirties, and works in a job that requires he be physically fit. From his behavior, he's probably in law enforcement or something similar but has never had much desire for the rules himself. He knew how to execute his plan far too well not to have knowledge of the way crime investigators work. Which means that the evidence he left behind won't be of any use, otherwise he would've gotten rid of it.

Reid isn't too sure about the other men. They're too careless, not confident in a way that suggests they can't be found with DNA, but in a way that tells they probably don't care or are too stupid to figure they can be caught. Neither of them seem particularly smart, so he hopes he's right and they've previously been put into some kind of system.

Dowan suddenly turns and walks out of the room, but he doesn't close the door, so Reid knows he's coming back. He doesn't think he could sit up - much less crawl or walk - anyway. Everything is still fuzzy around the edges and his limbs are weighing him down more than anything. Even just rolling over took a great deal of effort to accomplish.

While Dowan is gone, Reid takes in the room around him. The grimy walls (there's mold in the corner farthest him), the stained cement floor, the ratted carpet he's been thrown onto. There's a rusted metal pole going from floor to ceiling towards the opposite side of the room, and a dimming light by the door. The only other point of entry or escape is a small padlocked window that Reid isn't sure he could even fit through. It's the epitome of every cliche kidnapping story, but Reid has a feeling no one is going to be busting down the door dramatically to save him any time soon. They've probably only just realized he's missing, or at the very least not shown up for work or answered any texts or calls. That alone is enough to tip them off.

It hurts to think about what they might've felt when they walked into his apartment and saw the mess that had been made of it. Or, his bedroom, even. He could only imagine what they might have feared had gone down.

Something oddly like shame buries itself in him when he thinks about what happened there. He hates what they did to him, what they said to him, where they _touched_ him. They'd laughed and got off on Reid's fear and violating the most intimate parts of him, and he feels disgusting for it. He can still feel their hands on him and picture one of them looming over the edge of his bed, pants down as he laughs at Reid's tears. Another, holding him still and running rough hands beneath his shirt and dipping into the waistband of his pants as if to tease Reid with what he was capable of, and nothing was stopping him. There was a face just over his shoulder, nosing at his ear and nipping at the cut of his jaw while two legs had caged him in on either side. He'd rut against Reid's back just for the sheer pleasure it gave him to see Reid's pain.

Dowan, he remembers, had stood off to the side and watched. He didn't seem to enjoy what was happening, it was like he was . . . supervising. He'd also stood out of view of the phone Reid knows had taken pictures of him. Horrible, embarrassing, shameful pictures. Logically, he knows it's not his fault, but he can't help thinking he could've done something to stop it or prevent it. If maybe he had reached his gun in time or managed to throw them off enough to call for help.

But then they'd threatened the team, threatened Morgan, and he was so horrified they'd follow through with it that he'd utterly broken underneath their promises to hurt his family.

Footsteps tell of Dowan's return, and Reid looks over to see him drag in a wooden chair in one hand, and zip-ties in the other. Both are obviously meant for him. Dowan sets the chair in the middle of the room, and turns to face Reid. His eyes are so dead that Reid wonders if he feels anything at all, or if he's just a hollow shell of a man.

It never fails to unsettle him just how comfortable some people can be with causing others pain. He'll never quite understand it. He understands facts and statistics, but humans? People? They're a whole different matter that Reid doesn't pretend to understand on an emotional level.

The eye contact Reid has with Dowan has yet to break until Dowan crosses the room and grabs him by his hair. He drags Reid toward the chair even as he kicks his legs weakly and hisses in pain. Dowan pulls him up into the chair, and removes the rope binding his chafed wrists only to use the zip-ties to secure them to either arm of the seat. His ankles are next, and then he's once again left alone as Dowan steps out of the room.

Reid doesn't quite get a look at what he's carrying when he comes back, only what he thinks is a rag. Something scrapes against the concrete to his left, but before he can turn to look a hand forces his head back so he's looking up at the ceiling. A quiet groan is all he manages before the rag he'd seen before is placed over his face, and it dawns on him what Dowan is doing. No amount of struggling is going to get him out of this.

He needs to stay calm, he knows, but his heart races anyway and his throat feels like it's closing on him. He jerks, and for his trouble Dowan clenches a hand in his hair again and holds his head painfully still.

"Don't-"

Water splashes onto his face, spilling down his neck and effectively ending anything Reid could have said. He coughs, and shakes his head as if it'll ease the burning in his nose and the back of his throat. Distantly, he registers that he's struggling like a wild animal, sputtering and pushing against his restraints despite how futile it is.

He's going to drown, _he's going to drown_ and he's going to die tied to a chair in an abandoned building and be left there while his family struggles to find him in time without knowing he's already dead. Panic swells in him to the point he thinks he might explode, heart pounding so fast he's sure it'll grind to a stop because he can't _breathe_.

And then for a moment, it stops, and Reid can pull in a few stiff inhales even though it's stifled by the rag still over his face. There's a painful burning in his chest and he's shaking, and all he can see is the shadowed white of the rag, so he squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn't have to look at it. He notices, then, that he's clenching the arms of the chair so hard it hurts, and relaxes as much as he can before the next impending wave of water. Despite his attempts, Reid is still coiled tense in wait for what he knows is coming. He hates that he can't see, can't gauge when the water will come. Reid is completely out of control of every aspect of this situation. It's exactly what Dowan intends. He wants Reid to feel such trepidation, to know he's so close to actually drowning. The moments he's not under duress allow for just a second of clarity.

He's afraid to speak, but he isn't really sure what he would say anyway, so he says nothing.

The water hits him again, and Reid is thrown back into his hysteria. He doesn't remember opening his eyes, but he realizes he has when his vision starts to fade. It's become increasingly difficult to struggle, and Reid is aware he's going to pass out soon. He doesn't know how long Dowan has been waterboarding him, but this is a hell Reid loathes more by the second.

The rag is pulled off, and Reid coughs and violently shudders. His arms and legs spasm uncontrollably as he slumps to one side and promptly vomits the water he's swallowed on the floor. He sobs, both from pain and relief that's it's over and he can breathe again.

Reid doesn't get a moment to feel appeased before the zip-ties are cut and Dowan shoves hard him from behind onto the floor. Despite how he reflexively tries to catch himself, he still tumbles roughly onto the concrete with a stuttered cry. Like before, Dowan grabs him by the hair and pulls him back over to the same spot of carpet he'd put him when they first came into the room.

When Dowan lets go, a headache throbs dully in Reid's temples. He's cold, and he can't control his trembling, and his mouth is suddenly so dry his tongue scrapes against the roof of his mouth. He's also sopping wet down to the bottom of his shirt, but his pants and socks are dry, so he supposes that's something of a respite.

The tears spilling from his eyes are not.

Pain explodes across his already well bruised cheek, and Reid is unstable enough that he's thrown to the side when Dowan hits him. Before he can right himself, Dowan slaps him again, this time on the stomach, and Reid comes dangerously close to vomiting a second time. He settles for closing his eyes and willing himself not to throw up when the sharp sting melts through his skin into a dull twinge.

There's a familiar sting in the crook of his elbow, and Reid is pulled into a blessedly painless unconsciousness.

❯ ❯ ❯

The next time Reid wakes, he's drowsy and even keeping his eyes open seems to be no easy task. When he shifts it aggravates the soreness in his tense limbs, and Reid finds his wrists have been tied again.

The window on the other side of the room reveals that it's later in the day, but not too dark out yet. He can just see the edge of the sunset, and it's the best thing he's seen since arriving here. If he makes it out, he's going to sit outside and watch as the sun goes down, safe in the knowledge that he's going to live until tomorrow, a reminder of his freedom. For now, he sees it as a way of recounting the fact he's endured another day of torture.

"Look at the mess Dowan's made of you, gorgeous. Your pretty face isn't as pretty anymore."

The fact that Reid hadn't noticed one of the men from his apartment enter the room would be slightly off-putting if it weren't for his current drug-induced haze. It's the smarmy, perfectly kempt man that had held him down before. He thinks he remembers one of them mentioning his name, but doesn't get very far on what it is. The fact he doesn't remember is alarming. A fire lights in Reid, not one of anger but frustration at his own helplessness as he's grabbed by his forearms and forced onto his stomach. His previous drowsiness is replaced by a sudden shock of adrenaline.

He manages not to nearly crack his head open on the floor, but only just barely. He doesn't get but two seconds to be concerned about it before there's a weight pressing down onto him and he chokes on his own trepidation. The name he couldn't remember comes back to him with startling clarity– Hastings.

"P-," talking hurts and his words are slurred, but Reid is so very desperate, "please don't-"

He hears something rip, and there's a strip of tape being smoothed over his mouth. Hastings mockingly brushes a curl of Reid's hair away from his face and curls it around his finger before he pulls it away.

"Not that I don't appreciate the begging, but it's just so cute when you make all those little noises."

Reid can hear the laugh in his voice, and it's not the first time he's ever been exposed to the cruelty of humanity, but it's the most terrified he's ever been.

Hastings laughs, and there's rustling fabric. Reid is sure he's going to be sick, and he desperately wants to pass out or be anywhere but where he is now. Some part of him wants to believe that this isn't happening, that Reid is reliving some version of before, but he knows this is real, and he can't do anything to stop it. He's completely powerless, and Hastings has the freedom to do anything he so pleases.

Wide fingers curl around his hips, palms hot against the exposed skin where his shirt has been pushed up, and Reid sobs. Hastings shifts forward, bare skin against Reid's sweatpants, and nestles himself into the curves and dips of Reid's body. He ruts against him like a dog, and mortification curls heavy in Reid's stomach. His face is suddenly hot, slick with tears that he can't stop from welling in his eyes and sliding messily down his cheeks at a rapid pace.

Reid tries his damnedest to block out the moans and uttered words of encouragement, but they're all he can hear in the otherwise silent room. They're words he's going to remember for the rest of his life, and something in him cracks at that knowledge.

When Hastings is done, there's a wet patch just below Reid's tail bone and bruises settling into the pale of his skin. Humiliation digs into the deepest parts of him and poisons his bloodstream just as much as the drugs he's been given. Again, he's quivering and unsteady and his heart feels like it's climbed into his throat, but at the same time shock is enveloping everything and he feels far more numb than he should.

Hastings fixes himself, and grins at Reid as he walks toward the door. Before he leaves, he winks. Reid does nothing but stare.

When he's gone, Reid sits up achingly slow and tucks his knees to his chest. It takes mere minutes for the shock to wash away, and Reid feels so, so drained. He's exhausted, he doesn't have even the energy to cry, he hasn't eaten in long enough that it's become painful, and he's weary.

Mostly, he misses things. He misses home, even if home isn't necessarily where he lives. He misses the normal and the not-so-normal aspects of his life. He misses his family.

It's only been a day, and Reid is already starting to splinter into tiny, agonized pieces.

❯ ❯ ❯

The second day, Dowan allows Reid to use the bathroom, to his surprise, before taking him back. When they return, Dowan waterboards Reid only for a short time before he leaves. The silence left in his wake suffocates the room to an unbearable degree. He gets the sense Dowan has merely prepared him for something rather than aimed to torture and it's left every bit of Reid on edge.

Hastings returns with the third man Reid remembers seeing thumping heavily behind him, Wickerman, and his suspicions are unfortunately confirmed.

"Happy to see us, gorgeous?" Hastings grins, and Reid is sick of seeing that condescending expression on his face. It promises nothing but torture. Reid stares hard at Hastings, the perfect image of resentment and resistance despite the fear he's hiding.

"You should be grateful, you little _bitch_. I even got you a present."

The anger Hastings expresses slowly melts into smug satisfaction as he pulls something from his pocket. Reid can see the rough brown of leather, and then the flash of metal, and the sick feeling in his stomach increases tenfold.

A collar.

Dark brown, with a gold buckle and a blank oval tag dangling from it. He knows Hastings just wants to dehumanize him, but it doesn't make it any harder to accept the fact it's happening, any less degrading.

Hastings crouches and loops it around the back of Reid's neck, fastening the buckle with just enough room to slip a finger between it and Reid's neck. The leather isn't, but the metal is startling cold against his skin, especially where the tag just barely brushes him if he moves too much. Hastings backs up a bit, and Reid is determined not to express his disgust when Hastings smirks at what he sees.

"How adorable, it suits you perfectly," Hastings laughs lowly. Behind him, Reid can see Wickerman's pleased expression even though his face is shadowed.

Hastings pulls Reid into his lap, so much like the time in Reid's apartment that he has a startling flashback to it that renders him completely frozen for several seconds. Displeased with his detachment, Hastings roughly grips between Reid's legs and relishes in the sharp cry that comes from it. His laugh ghosts over Reid's shoulder in the most unpleasant way, hot and oppressing.

"Focus, gorgeous," Hastings warns, and Reid closes his eyes to stop the tears building there from spilling over. "Unless you want us to pay Agent Morgan a visit."

Reid's stomach seizes. He takes an unsteady breath and shakes his head rapidly.

"Alright then, pay attention."

Wickerman again is merely a bystander, getting off on watching the events unfolding before him with starving, dark eyes.

The hand on Reid moves to grasp the collar, tugging it enough to make it uncomfortable but not enough to completely prevent him from breathing. The other, Reid can feel moving behind him, knuckles brushing his lower back as Hastings pleasures himself.

It drags on enough that Reid reaches his breaking point, and a single painful sob pushes out of his throat until they won't stop. Hastings laughs, loud and gleeful and terrifying, and Wickerman joins him soon after in his joy. Not only joy, but mockery. They're _mocking_ Reid. He wonders if there's a shred of humanity left inside these men, or if they've been stripped of it so deeply that all that's left are two monsters in the skins of what used to be people.

It's easier to believe that there are actual monsters out there, rather than the fact that sometimes people _are_ the monsters.

As soon as they're done, Hastings stands in front of Reid with his phone in front of him.

"Smile, gorgeous." Reid is beginning to hate the word. There's a click, the sound of a picture being taken. Reid bows his head to hide the shame he feels painting his face.

When Hastings and Wickerman leave, Reid reaches up with weak arms and manages to clasp the tag in his trembling fingers. He runs them over the indentations he finds, and wishes he hadn't. Because he knows, now, the tag isn't blank. There's a word there.

It's bitch.

❯ ❯ ❯

Dowan returns just as Reid's eyes begin to feel dry and raw and the nausea has subsided enough that he no longer feels seconds from being sick. He's carrying a bottle of water and bread. It's the best damn thing Reid's seen in the past few days.

He hands Reid the water first, then the bread, eyes so blank that if Reid didn't now better he'd think this man to be completely devoid of emotion.

The water alleviates the intense burning in his throat, though he only takes a small amount in the case this is all he'll get for a while, and the bread goes down easy. The hunger pains aren't as blaring, still there but lessened with the little food he's been given.

Reid hates how suffocating it becomes when he's left with nothing but silence and his own misery. The echoes of three sick men, the screaming of bruises and cuts and monstrous hands touching places they have no right to touch.

Reid has become nothing more than an object.

❯ ❯ ❯

The third day, Wickerman doesn't come around when Hastings does. Reid isn't sure if it's a bad or a good thing, but he doesn't like the way Hastings seems rather happy with this turn of events. Or rather, happy with the fact he gets more alone time with Reid. His excitement is almost palpable, clogging the room with its ferocity. For what, Reid wishes he wouldn't have to find out.

"Look at those bruises, gorgeous," Hastings admires, eyes flicking over Reid's face. The swelling, he can feel, has gone down, and Reid's probably now left with a mottled cheek of yellow and purple. "You're startin' to look even lovelier, now."

A thumb brushes his cheek, gently before it presses down on one of his bruises, and Reid jerks away with a quiet noise of pain and raises his bound hands in an aborted attempt to push Hastings away. His own boldness to deny Hastings is surprising, and not just to himself.

"Ooh, someone's feeling frisky this morning. What did Dowan put in your corn flakes this morning?" Hastings shakes with laughter, the hand that Reid had tried to push away sliding to rest on his bent knee. The upward pull of his lips belies the harsh way he clenches Reid's knee. He's not happy with how Reid has resisted him. The pleading, begging he enjoys . . . but the physical opposition makes him angry, impedes his progress.

"On your back."

The order is spoken sharply, and Hastings suddenly doesn't look so giddy anymore. Reid swallows, and does as he says. He carefully leans back, and when Hastings moves to rest in front of his legs, he kicks out, hard. Hastings flies backward, farther than Reid had expected, and his head smacks the concrete. There's an outraged cry, but Reid is already rolling over and stumbling toward the door desperately without sparing the time to see if Hastings is staying down.

Adrenaline is the only thing that manages to keep him going, muting the pain enough that he can move at a decent pace. He uses the wall as support, palms to the cold cement as he totters unevenly ever closer to the door. He reaches out with one hand toward the handle, fingers outstretched in anticipation. Right there, it's right there, he's so _close_.

He makes it another two steps before a hand grabs the collar around his neck and he's yanked backwards so hard that he lands straight on his backside with a choked yelp. The air is completely sucked out of him so fast he gapes like a fish for several seconds as pain throbs around his tailbone and radiates up his back. When he looks up, Hastings is standing over him, and every bit of him emanates so much rage that Reid fears Hastings will actually kill him. He's red in the face, eyebrows pinched and his mouth set in a deep scowl. He's allowing his anger to take over, and that doesn't promise anything good for Reid.

"You disobedient little bitch!" Hastings snarls wildly, jerking Reid back to the carpet by his arms so hard he's sure Hastings is close to dislocating one of them. As soon as he drops Reid's arms he reels a fist back and punches Reid in the jaw. Again, he pulls back and this time hits Reid in the stomach. Again, and then again until Reid is gasping and groaning at the heightened pain of Hastings hitting preexisting bruises.

Hastings shoves Reid onto his back, pulling his knees apart and yanking at his sweatpants. He wrenches them down viciously, completely ignorant to anything Reid does in an attempt to stop him.

"No wait, please don't-" Reid nearly chokes on his own fear. His movements are lethargic with it, very well near paralyzing. He knows this has always been a possibility, but it doesn't make it any less horrific to experience, to know that it's going to happen. Hastings is feeding off of his fear like a hungry predator, grin sharp and eyes gleaming as they roam over the sight in front of him.

"Well, look at you," Hastings murmurs in a breath, suddenly deathly calm. He nudges Reid's shirt up to spread a hand on his stomach, fingers brushing across the soft, tender skin there appreciatively. It makes Reid squirm with disgust. His stomach clenches when Hastings moves his hands to curl his fingers under his boxers. His breath comes in fast puffs, terror building so fast it's suffocating. He turns his head away so he doesn't have to watch as Hastings violates him again.

Reid gasps when Hastings presses his bare skin to his, hips aligned, and takes both of them in his hand. Until now, their handling has been mostly above clothing, at least for anything below the belt, but now Hastings is touching him with rough, calloused hands and it _hurts_. His grip is incredibly tight and the pace he sets is brutal. Nothing but pain for Reid and immense pleasure for Hastings. It's exactly what he wants, what he craves as part of his fantasy. Reid has no doubts that he is not Hastings's first victim. He's far too confident and experienced. No one inexperienced escalates this fast without any sort of hesitance or mistake. It also likely means Hastings knows just how to cause the most pain while maximizing his own pleasure, which is most definitely anything but good for Reid.

"Stop, stop," Reid cries, squirming despite its futility. Hastings laughs and brushes at his tears, swiping them away with a thumb. It's a crippling image, Hastings looming over him with complete control of Reid's body and absolutely no remorse for his actions. He's enjoying every second of this situation, and it fucks with Reid so badly he can't decide if he's angry or just incredibly broken by it.

"C'mon, don't tell me you don't _like_ it. This is supposed to feel _good_ , gorgeous."

There it is, the nickname again. Reid loathes having to hear it. He feels like gagging when Hastings presses down harder.

"There we go," Hastings groans, eyes closed in the midst of his indulgence. His free hand grips the back of Reid's thigh hard, fingers digging and pressing into as much flesh as they can. Reid grits his teeth against the feeling, clenches his eyes shut even harder. Regulating his breathing is almost impossible to do when he feels so close to just breaking.

Hastings finishes, and Reid swallows a devastated noise when he feels something wet spill across his stomach. There's no denying what it is. Reid can't block out what's happening no matter how much he so desperately wants to. He isn't good at compartmentalizing, never has been, and he hates that fact now more than ever.

There's the quiet scrape of metal, and Reid's eyes flick only momentarily to the door.

"Ah, see? That was fun, wasn't it? Look at the mess I've made of you." Hastings proudly beams down at him, as if Reid is a painting and Hastings has just made a masterpiece.

Hastings has just fixed himself when he's pulled back so hard by his hair a large chunk of it is ripped away. He yells out, hands flying to his head wildly. Hastings is quick to get back up, and Reid watches as surprise colors his body language. He can't see Hastings's face, but he's sure he looks it, too. Reid is just as surprised as he is. He's not sure why Dowan has suddenly turned against Hastings, but he figures it might have something to do with the fact Wickerman hasn't shown up.

"What the hell?" Hastings questions, outraged.

Dowan doesn't answer, and calmly strides toward Hastings where he's still sprawled on the floor. He boots Hastings in the stomach, and the force of it rolls him onto his back with a moan. Dowan pins one of his arms to the ground, and for one blinding moment Reid is afraid Dowan is going to break it. He instead pulls out a syringe, and all Reid can feel is Tobias's hands on him, pressing the needle in despite Reid's protests.

_Tell me it doesn't help._

The way Hastings is struggling reminds him too much of himself. He wonders if Hastings feels just like he had back in that cabin; if he's just as terrified or if maybe he suddenly understands how Reid feels being forced to do things against his will.

"The fuck? The Dilaudid is meant for the kid!"

Reid's heart shudders, and a small part of him crumbles. Dowan knows a lot more about him than he'd thought. He knows far more than he _should_.

Hastings becomes lost in the throes of what he's been given just as Dowan slits his throat. Reid flinches when blood splatters dangerously close to his feet and pools around Hastings sluggishly as he gurgles helplessly. His eyes burn from how wide they are, but he can't bring himself to blink, to move. He's too overwhelmed by fear to do so much as breathe. He watches, with a heart beating too wildly for his calm image, as Dowan drags Hastings out of the room by his ankles.

The sound of his body sliding across the cement screeches in Reid's ears for hours after Dowan has left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy COW I apologize for taking over two weeks to update! I had a bunch of things going on so writing time was limited. (4th of July, parties, etc) I am also going to be getting a new puppy soon so we've been arranging that, and I am going to be volunteering at my local animal shelter soon c:  
> Excuses aside, I am so sorry this took so long! Next update coming soon.  
> Next chapter, the 4th day from Reid's point of view and (finally) a bit of info on Dowan! See you all soon. Leave a review if you can! I love hearing what you have to say, it gives me a bit more inspiration ♡.


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